


hand in unlovable hand

by eclectictsunami



Series: the work of a young virtuoso [2]
Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: (both very brief), Established Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Rape, all they do is eat tacos talk murder and fuck, if that's what you want you're in the right place, rare pairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26565997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eclectictsunami/pseuds/eclectictsunami
Summary: This is what it looks like, for the two of them.
Relationships: Jeremy Downs/Dexter Morgan
Series: the work of a young virtuoso [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891312
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	hand in unlovable hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/gifts).



> For Jackie, may this humble offering of Serial Killer Domestic Bliss please my lady
> 
> Title from "No Children" by the Mountain Goats. I'm sure this is the millionth fic to use that song for a title, but hey, it's the first one for THIS pairing to do it.
> 
> Again, Dexter is 32, Jeremy is 19, and they're serial killers. Just...just be aware of that.

Jeremy’s on him the second Dexter gets in the door.

There are takeout containers on the kitchen table - Dexter had called and asked him to pick up dinner when he was on his way home, and it seems Jeremy didn’t forget, although he never does forget when it comes to food. Carne asada tacos, most likely, judging from the smell, probably from that spot around the corner - not the best food, but it’s close by, and Jeremy doesn’t have a car and Dexter is _sure as shit_ not letting him drive his, so they pretty much live on it. He certainly doesn’t trust him to cook.

Jeremy’s hair is wet, and Dexter can smell the sting of chlorine on his skin. He probably spent the whole day in the pool. He’s gotten tanner and leaner since Dexter met him, muscles firmer, reflexes sharper. He throws his arms around Dexter’s neck but doesn’t leave them there, slides hands to his chest and back and ass, touch-hungry and whimpering a little into his mouth as he kisses him. Dexter lets him for a little while, lets himself be pushed up against the door while Jeremy starts to press open-mouthed kisses to his throat, but if he lets him get carried away they’ll never even make it into the kitchen, so Dexter pushes him off.

“The food,” he says. Tries to keep his voice firm, which is actually a bit difficult when Jeremy’s fingers are starting to work at the buttons of his shirt and he’s pressing bites to his collarbone, some a little too sharp. “Jeremy.”

“Fuck the food,” Jeremy mutters, breathless, and presses himself closer. He’s already hard, not that that’s terribly surprising.

“It’ll get cold,” Dexter says, with a little more force, and pushes him away with one hand firm on his chest. Jeremy whines a little but doesn’t protest further when Dexter pushes him down into the kitchen chair; he must be starving too, because he’s _always_ starving, particularly when he’s been swimming all day. Jeremy is essentially a bottomless pit; Dexter figures he must have been much the same at his age, but he doesn’t think he was ever that indiscriminate with what he ate, or that quick to inhale his food like a goddamn cobra. Dexter has never spent so much money on food in his life. He once saw Jeremy pick a Snickers bar off the ground and eat it; he said it was still fully wrapped, but Dexter’s not totally sure he believes him. He’ll eat eggs burnt to a crisp and hamburger nearly raw, and devours junk food in a way that’s both gross and a little alarming. He says that food, _any_ food, is better than what he had in prison, which Dexter supposes is fair enough. In the occasional worries Dexter’s had about prison, the terrible food has often been high on the list of things he dreads.

As expected, Jeremy inhales the food with the kind of enthusiasm that might make Dexter think he’d make himself sick if he hadn’t seen him do it a thousand times. His table manners, if they can even be called that, are genuinely appalling, food half falling out of his mouth and sauce all over his hands as though he’s never heard of a napkin in his life. Irritated at how his hair, still hanging loose, keeps falling into the food, Dexter lets out a little huff and pushes it back.

Immediately Jeremy stops, swallows with an audible gulp. He stares at Dexter, eyes gone wide and liquid. Dexter lets his hand linger there, tucks his hair behind his ear and traces his thumb along the line of his jaw, and Jeremy sighs as his eyes fall shut. Everything about him has gone still and quiet. Amazing, the things that will simply stop him in his tracks. 

Smirking a little to himself, Dexter returns to his food. Catches glances at Jeremy out of the corner of his eye, still frozen, a little pink in the cheeks.

“Did you go to any crime scenes today?” Jeremy asks, when he’s apparently recovered himself a little bit. Strange, how it might be an opening to polite conversation from someone else; Dexter would have to censor himself, contain his excitement for an ordinary audience, hold back on the blood and gore and how it thrills him, but Jeremy’s voice is eager, filled with genuine excitement. He _wants_ the gory details, and wants Dexter’s excitement for them even more.

Unfortunately, there aren’t any to share today. “Nope,” he says, and Jeremy shrugs a little in disappointment. _“But,”_ he adds, not above a brief dramatic pause, “I learned about this guy, let go for lack of evidence. Lyle Evans, 43 years old, ex-con, served five years for aggravated assault. He…” He says this part a bit more carefully, warily. “He raped and murdered a 14-year-old girl.”

He watches Jeremy’s face carefully, how it hardens, teeth and fingers clench. That look in his eyes again, the one that Dexter watches for, tries to channel and guide, but that is always a little out of his control. _Both_ of their control.

“So are we doing him tonight?” Jeremy asks. He still hasn’t unclenched his fists. Ready to spring into action the moment he’s given permission.

Dexter almost chuckles. “No,” he says. “I have a lot more research to do. Have to make completely sure he’s guilty, first. I’m still waiting on some tests. Then we’ve got to come up with a way to track him.” How strange it is, too, that _we._ It just slips out by now.

Jeremy shrugs, a little sullenly, but nods. “Okay. Where do we start?”

They both eat at a slightly more normal pace after that, lingering a little over Dexter’s plans. Jeremy gets them both a beer, which Dexter often doesn’t allow him, but he doesn’t protest, since it’s just the one this time; the minute the food is gone, though, before Dexter can even throw the containers away, Jeremy throws himself out of his chair with such force that it nearly clatters to the floor.

“Uh,” Dexter says. “I brought my computer home from work, I was going to do some more research - “

“After,” Jeremy says, already grabbing wherever he can reach, and kisses him.

Dexter almost says _after what,_ just to bait him, but Jeremy doesn’t give him the chance. It may take him a second longer to get there, but he knows where this is going, where this is _constantly_ going. They had sex last night, rigorous enough that Dexter thoroughly wore himself out and was grateful for the sound sleep he fell into, too tired to mind when Jeremy curled himself up around him, leaving him no room at all. Then again this morning, when Jeremy woke him up with his mouth on his dick, which is how Dexter wakes up more often than not these days. He’s not exactly going to protest this, so long as it actually _is_ morning and not the middle of the night, which has happened more than once. He does, as he’s had to remind Jeremy _many_ times, have a job where he needs to f _ocus_ , driving after too-little sleep is essentially the same as driving drunk, he needs to _sleep._

They don’t make it to the bed. They often don’t. They barely even make it to the couch. Dexter has taken to stashing condoms and lubricant all around the apartment - and his car, and the boat - to placate Jeremy’s impatience, as he’d happily go without if Dexter didn’t insist on it. Jeremy’s requests, and sometimes demands, to fuck him bare have always been met with a firm and decisive _no,_ and he’s not going to waver on that. He indulges him enough.

He lets Jeremy set the pace at first while he rides him, frantic, but uses his hands on his hips to force him into a slower rhythm; Jeremy likes it best like this, even if he often doesn’t have the patience to allow for it. Barely has to touch his cock to make him come, and keeps fucking him after, settled into his lap with their foreheads pressed together. Dexter hasn’t, in the past, much liked making eye contact during sex; it’s too revealing, exposes too much of himself, allows his partner to see how empty he is and just how little there really is in him, but with Jeremy he finds he doesn’t really mind. It’s…oddly gratifying, pleasing him, seeing his face screwed up in something like anguish when he begs and begs for more, even when he’s run out of breath and can barely speak, just pants into Dexter’s mouth like a dying animal. Cups his hand around Jeremy’s neck - that stupid, fucking ugly tattoo, he _hates_ it, but it’s still ink, still a mark on his skin that he can bite to replace with one of his own. Jeremy’s talked of getting another one, maybe one over his heart that only Dexter can see, and Dexter’s always rolled his eyes at the idea, but now, when he’s about to come, he thinks, _maybe, maybe…_

Jeremy stays resting on his lap after, having come twice, fully resting his weight on him and entirely too heavy. It can be suffocating, the crushing weight of his affection, the expectation that always hangs in it. Part of him wants to shove him away so he can take a breath, sleep and eat and hunt in _peace._ Enough indulgence.

Jeremy’s neck and chest are sweaty now, scent mingling with the smell of chlorine, and Dexter breathes it in. It’s a satisfying smell. Familiar. Rubs a little at Jeremy’s stomach, his thighs, which are sticky with come. It’s objectively gross, and he’s distantly thinking about how they really should put plastic down on the couch, but he rubs it into his skin anyway, gives himself a moment to indulge in the smell of it, lightly strokes the muscles of Jeremy’s thighs where they still shake. 

“We should clean ourselves up,” he says finally. His hands are stroking up and down Jeremy’s back now, nearly against his own will.

Jeremy nestles closer still, somehow, warm breath heavy on Dexter’s chest, arms wound around his neck. “Few more minutes,” he mumbles. He sounds like he’s falling asleep.

“Fine,” Dexter sighs. “Few more minutes.”

**Author's Note:**

> When Dexter is close to being caught in Season 2, he briefly considers turning himself over to the police. When he decides against it, one of the things he relishes in that he couldn't get in prison is delicious, homemade coffee and food. I always found that funny.


End file.
